


my most demanding dream

by fragrantharbour



Category: Scandinavia and the World
Genre: (probably), Angst, Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Blood, Pining, Unrequited Love, finland pines SO hard its awesome . so cool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23742655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragrantharbour/pseuds/fragrantharbour
Summary: Finland can't sleep.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Finland/Sweden (Scandinavia and the World), onesided? - Relationship, Åland/Sweden (Scandinavia and the World)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	my most demanding dream

Finland is wide awake.

The other Nordics are sound asleep, snoring peacefully and tangled in the sheets and each other’s arms for warmth. Finland grunts and scoots impossibly closer to the edge of their stupidly wide bed, till his arm almost touches the floor. He reaches for his coat, flung carelessly to the floor. He tugs it closer by the sleeve, and rifles through the pockets for his phone.

 _Perkele_ . Must’ve left it downstairs, in the living room. They’d all argued over something- maybe Iceland’s economic crisis- before heading upstairs to collapse into bed, exhausted, except for Finland, who’d mostly been dragged along to the bedroom. He just wants to check the time- the clock in the room is broken, as the darkness in the window indicates that it’s likely _not_ seven in the morning. He silently curses Denmark for proposing the council years ago, and for hosting it in this stupid house in Copenhagen, where not a single clock in the house works. 

He sits up, pulling his knife out from under his pillow. His throat feels uncomfortably dry, not just from disuse, and he curses mentally when he remembers he’s also left his beloved salmari downstairs.

That does it. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, careful not to wake the rest of them. Denmark is curled disgustingly close into Norway’s side, Iceland’s perfect silver hair somehow looks just as angelic when he’s asleep, even though Norway’s fingers are tangled in the wintry locks. Then there’s Sweden. Finland’s glare softens for a moment, unconsciously mimicking the blonde’s peaceful resting face. Deep inside, in a part of his heart he’d like to carve out with his knife, he wishes Sweden could be that relaxed around him when awake- instead of the stony animosity that Finland naturally reciprocates. 

He longs for Sweden to look at him the way he looks at Åland.

Suddenly aware of the knife in his tightening fist- the blade is digging into his palm, Finland violently (silently) curses Sweden and his cousin out of his groggy thoughts. He forces himself to look away, dragging himself out of bed and to the doorway. He clenches his fingers around his knife, despite the warm blood he can feel dripping from his hand. It gives him some sense of security, warding off the paranoia that’s built up in his heart over the years, from wars and occupation. 

It’ll be amusing to see Denmark’s reaction to a trail of blood on the carpet in the morning. 

-

Downstairs. His phone, and precious bottle of vodka, sit on the marble kitchen island. Fumbling for the light switch with his knife-hand (and smearing his blood on the wall in the process), he makes his way, cursing internally, to the kitchen. 

02:47, according to his phone. He grimaces at the feeling of drying blood on his hand, finally deciding to wash it off in the sink. It'll be only a few more hours before Iceland and Norway stumble downstairs, shuffling around each other to make coffee and breakfast. Yet another sleepless night. 

The broken clock next to the fridge claims it’s 8. Finland sits leaning into his elbows on the island, nursing his half-empty bottle of salmari in his knifeless hand, listening to the ticking of the clock. He’s not sure how much time passes, how many times he lifts the bottle to his lips and gulps down the salty liqueur, before he hears someone coming down the stairs. 

He checks his phone- only 04:12, it’s definitely not Iceland down for his morning coffee. Sitting up, he grabs his knife and winces as the handle presses into his open wound. He knows he shouldn’t be wary, the only people in the house are the other Nordics, but still- he holds the weapon tighter.

“..how long have you been awake?” comes the soft voice from the stairs. Sweden.

“...” expected, Finland doesn’t reply, but he relaxes his grip on his knife, setting it down on the table. Sweden pushes his glasses up, rubs his eyes and yawns. Finland tries to look away. Sweden turns to look at the clock, and yelps. 

“Wh- blood? Finland, is this yours?” His voice is gentler, less accusatory than it would be in the morning. The nation in question rolls his eyes, and holds his hand up so Sweden can squint and see the gash in his palm. “You-” he sighs in frustration and stumbles sleepily to the kitchen. He grabs Finland’s wrist, despite the man’s struggle to pull away and grunted protest. He finally gives up and lets his fingers unfurl to reveal the wound. 

He tries not to think about the vague intimacy of Sweden nursing his hand, soft and smooth against callouses and- he sucks air in through his teeth as Sweden presses his thumb against the bloody cut, but doesn’t flinch at the sting. He pulls the front of his hat down with his free hand to cover his eyes, taking comfort in the familiar darkness.

“Why did you... did something happen?” he hears Sweden ask, noting the uncharacteristic (uncharacteristic because it’s directed towards Finland of all people, mostly) concern in his voice. Finland slowly shakes his head no, the flaps of his hat swaying gently. He hears a sigh, and Sweden lets go of his hand. Finland tries to feel relieved, but instead anger and humiliation wells up in response to the quiet ‘ _comebackcomebackcomeback_ ‘ that hums in the back of his mind as he listens to Sweden walk away. He sighs, mumbling a curse in Finnish.

“Was it a nightmare? Russia?”

He shifts, surprised when Sweden comes back from.. wherever. He doesn’t move to uncover his eyes. Sweden pulls a stool closer to him and sets something on the counter.

“Finland?” warm hands, not his own, pull his hat away from his eyes. “Was it a nightmare?” he repeats softly in a way that makes his heart flutter, cautiously tilting Finland’s face towards his own. He swallows and glances at his knife, the bandages and ointment Sweden had set on the table. He tries- tries to look away from Sweden’s concerned blue-grey eyes and soft mouth, tries to will the muscles in his face into an aggressive snarl. To tear himself away from Sweden’s soft, comforting hold.

It doesn’t work, his eyebrows stay conflicted, and instead of pulling away, he leans into Sweden’s palm. Elects to ignore the odd sinking-floating feeling in his chest.

“ _Ei_. N-not a nightmare,” he breathes out, clearing his throat. Sweden’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise, but he stays quiet and waits for Finland to finish. “Just...” he trails off, uncomfortable with his gruff voice, and shuts his eyes.

“...couldn’t sleep?” the hand on his cheek shifts, Sweden’s thumb slowly traces his gruff stubble, and despite only seeing the darkness of his eyelids, Finland can practically feel the other man’s eyes boring into him. He tries to mumble a confirmation, but all he can think about is what the blonde looks like right now- it’d be too much to actually look, it already hurts to imagine. He knows the concern, the tenderness in his gaze isn’t truly meant for him (even though it once might have been, but that’s distant in the past). He knows the comfortable peace they share together won’t last long, it’ll break when they’re both fully awake, it’ll break when Åland comes in the morning to pick Sweden up. Åland.

Frustration- hot _jealousy_ courses through him at the thought of his autonomous cousin, and he jerks away to grab his knife. Still slow with sleep, Sweden barely has time to react to the sudden outburst, and Finland pulls him out of the stool and pins him to the kitchen floor, weapon raised and ready to strike. 

“What-” the kindness is gone from Sweden’s face, replaced with the annoyance and stormy anger Finland is used to, emotion he _knows_ is actually meant for him, and not his stupid cousin or anyone else. The way it’s supposed to be, Finland threatening with his knife like he does to everyone. His non weapon-bearing hand has a weak grip on Sweden’s shoulder, holding it down without much effort. Sweden easily pushes him off and kicks him away.

 _You ruined it_. He thinks, partially towards Sweden, mostly to himself. His inner voice is disgustingly proud of him.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Sweden spits, full of hatred once again (Finland smiles in satisfaction), and pulls himself up to stand. He adjusts his glasses and glares down at Finland, who sits staring up at him from the cold kitchen floor. They glare, panting and combing through their respective thoughts for something to say, to yell spitefully at each other. 

Finland doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, even though his knees are starting to hurt, and his hand is bleeding again. He grins, wallows in the pride and swollen regret at his self-sabotage and glares up at Sweden, heart aching with longing. The smug smile on his face feels ugly and wrong, and he can tell it upsets the standing kingdom, although he’s not sure exactly in what way- assumedly, annoyance. 

Or not.

Instead of rage, Sweden sounds… disappointed. “I- I thought you were _finally_ willing to trust me. To open up again,” to his surprise, Sweden holds a hand out to him. Finland slaps it away and stands by himself, wincing at the pain in his stomach where he’d been kicked. “You asshole. I’m- I shouldn’t have expected it. I just thought…”

He feels like he’s a kid again, being scolded by a disappointed King of Europe when he and Sweden left Denmark. This time, the disappointment actually matters. The strained, almost pleading tone in Sweden’s voice worms its way deep into Finland’s heart and eats at him, and he’s not paying attention to what’s being said anymore- he desperately wants to mumble an apology and collapse into Sweden’s arms, to feel his gentle hand on his face, to see that tender calm again. He wants to pull Sweden close and shut him up with a kiss, although he’s sure his breath smells less than perfect from the salmari. Sweden rambles on, hurt, agonizing, and Finland wants to reach out and stop the pain, wants to chase it out with soft, apologetic reassurance. He wants Sweden to be happy. He wants to be happy again, with Sweden.

Instead, he just stares with tears in his eyes and that same unrelenting, almost gloating smile plastered on his face. 

He notices Sweden’s stopped talking, and looks up, the pained look on his face twists Finland’s insides even more, makes him ache and yearn for the tenderness they’d shared just fifteen minutes ago. He opens his mouth again, about to say something, but footsteps from the stairs draw their attention away. 

“Eh? Why are you two up? It’s-” it’s Norway, disheveled and yawning. He glances at the broken clock, and blanks when he sees the dried blood smeared along the wall. “Uh… what- what happened? Guys?”

Finland looks back at Sweden, and holds out his bleeding hand. The kingdom looks down and grabs him roughly by the wrist, and flicks the rubbing alcohol’s cap off with his free hand. 

“It’s fine. Finland cut his hand.” Sweden says, cold and short. Finland grunts when the alcohol is poured onto his palm, and he grits his teeth through the sting. 

“It’s-” Norway yawns yet again, and shuffles over to the kitchen, checking his phone. “It’s 4 in the morning, what were you even doing up?” he questions, staring at Finland, and takes a seat on the opposite side of the marble island. 

They sit in uncomfortable silence, until Sweden answers for him. 

“He couldn’t sleep.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Umm. I can't write but i did this in one sitting with minimal revision, hopefully it, doesnt suck Too bad
> 
> title is from covet by basement blah blah i thought it was fitting


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